From a Basement on the Hill...
One of my favorite singers is Elliot Smith. I first heard his CD, Figure 8, while working at Wherehouse Music back in 2000. It was a promotional CD that we had to play in the store and I loved it after the first listen. I immediately went out and purchased all of his CDs. And for the next several years hardly a day went by that one of Elliot’s Cds wasn’t in my player.
Then on October 22, 2003 Elliot Smith died in his apartment in Los Angeles. He was 34; the same age I am now. To this day, the authorities aren’t sure whether his death was homicide or suicide. He had two stab wounds to the chest—not typical of a suicide. And yet his girlfriend discovered a very brief suicide note left on a post-it.
The coroner’s report points out defensive wounds on his hands, but Elliot was known for burning himself from time to time with cigarettes and nicks and cuts on his hands were probably familiar sights.
His girlfriend’s statement to the police was basically as follows: They were having an argument, she locked herself in the bathroom, heard a scream, came out to see Elliot’s back to her. He turned around and there was a knife in his chest. She pulled it out and attempted CPR. Shortly after, he died.
Elliot died in Silver Lake—a small artsy, yet down-to-earth community in Los Angeles, where I used to live and Makoto and Sydney still live. But he grew up in Portland, Oregon where I now live. And it’s difficult not to pass a music store without seeing some sort of tribute to one of Portland’s very own musical geniuses.
I dare you to listen to Elliot Smith. And then tell me what you think.
Then on October 22, 2003 Elliot Smith died in his apartment in Los Angeles. He was 34; the same age I am now. To this day, the authorities aren’t sure whether his death was homicide or suicide. He had two stab wounds to the chest—not typical of a suicide. And yet his girlfriend discovered a very brief suicide note left on a post-it.
The coroner’s report points out defensive wounds on his hands, but Elliot was known for burning himself from time to time with cigarettes and nicks and cuts on his hands were probably familiar sights.
His girlfriend’s statement to the police was basically as follows: They were having an argument, she locked herself in the bathroom, heard a scream, came out to see Elliot’s back to her. He turned around and there was a knife in his chest. She pulled it out and attempted CPR. Shortly after, he died.
Elliot died in Silver Lake—a small artsy, yet down-to-earth community in Los Angeles, where I used to live and Makoto and Sydney still live. But he grew up in Portland, Oregon where I now live. And it’s difficult not to pass a music store without seeing some sort of tribute to one of Portland’s very own musical geniuses.
I dare you to listen to Elliot Smith. And then tell me what you think.
posted by Grant-Will-Rant at
11:17 AM
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